


Renegade

by Aalligade



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, Diamond City, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gun Kink, Hurt/Comfort, I guess it all depends on how you view synths, Lord forgive me I’m back on my bullshit, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Canon Compliant, Nuka-World Amusement Park (Fallout), POV Switches, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Synth main character, This is a very strange fic, complicated feelings, hidden identities, minor original characters, mute main character, selfcest technically, sorry lol, what the fuck am I doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aalligade/pseuds/Aalligade
Summary: Renegade, noun,“A person who deserts and betrays an organization, country, or set of principles”
Relationships: Male sole survivor/Synth Male sole survivor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. Beginning

Harley Reed knew he was a synth. That fact had never been hidden from him, and Father had always shown a sense of pride over his creation. A synth who had been built as a child and grown into a strong and healthy adult. A marvel of bio-engineering. 

He was the next in line as director, and he made sure the others knew that. (The other synths didn’t seem to like him. He could live with that.) 

He had always assumed that he was a replica of Father. There was a great resemblance between the two of them (as many scientists were quick to point out,) and he had no reason to believe that his DNA came from a different source. 

But it seemed like there were some... _discrepancies._ Like the fact that Harley towered over Father, who continued to insist that he had not reached his full height. (Despite him being 22, which _should’ve_ meant he was at the end of his growth spurt.) There was also the unnerving truth that Father never actually admitted that they were (technically) the same person. 

There were many questions Harley had that no one wanted to provide answers to. _Why_ was he created? Just to see if it was possible? Was he actually a synth replica of the Institute's director? If not, _who is he?_

It seemed that secrecy was a requirement for those who worked on the project that created him. The scientists knew how to keep their mouths shut, but the terminals would give away anything to whoever had the right credentials. (Harley didn’t feel bad about stealing Father’s login and using it to snoop— he had been doing it since he was a child.) 

The first 3,000-something entries were nothing useful. Just daily logs about how much he weighed or what puzzle he solved. Typical Institute journaling. The very first entries were the ones he was looking for. The first one was just a basic layout of the experiment, along with a schedule. Typical. Boring. Next. 

It’s the fifth entry that _really_ piqued his interest. The date placed it a full year before Harley was created? Born? Whatever. It’s an email that had been sent from Father, replying to the head of synth productions. About how he... wouldn’t let Harley be created in his image..? 

Confused, but still too curious for his own good, he continued to read. Father claimed he knew of a perfect subject— one that he had had his eye on for years. A vault-dweller from 111, the same one that Father has been taken from. A resilient ex-soldier. (The only one who Kellogg has not directly or indirectly killed.) A treasure trove of clean, pre-war DNA. 

Harley could feel his hands shake as his world seemed to crumble around him. He had lived his whole life thinking that he was the successor and son of Father— a perfect copy that would embody the ideals of the Institute. Now all of that had been stripped away. He was the synth replica of some random, unimportant vault-dweller. It felt like a cruel joke. 

His whole body feeling numb, he shut off the terminal and stepped away. Now what? He knew who his progenitor was, and where he could be found. What would he do with that information? 

The small voice in the back of his mind suggested that he should go and meet this vault-dweller. To make his peace, so to speak. 

”I am _technically_ allowed to visit the surface,” He had mumbled, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. (He didn’t enjoy hearing his own voice. Even the act of speaking felt unnatural to him— like his body just didn’t agree with it.) 

’But I’d have to bring guards with me,’ He argues in his head. ‘The people on the surface don’t like them, though. They’d be less likely to attack me if I’m on my own.’ 

’But Father will be disappointed with me if I—‘ He dismisses the thought before he even finished it. He was 22, for gods sake! He had spent his whole life playing the perfect child, maybe some rebellion would be good for him. 

That train of thought was the reason why Harley is currently standing in the middle of the CIT campus, dressed in some sort of gas mask and a ridiculous poncho-looking... _thing,_ clutching a small laser rifle like his life depends on it. (Which, technically, it does.) 

The harsh sunlight hurts his eyes and makes him feel almost unbearably warm. It feels like another planet when compared to the sterile, mechanical lighting of the Institute. He can’t tell if he likes it or not, but it’s certainly a new feeling. He’ll have to get used to it if he’s going to make it all the way to vault 111. 

The crumbled buildings are nothing impressive (he had seen plenty of pictures,) but a vague shape in the difference draws his attention. It’s some sort of floating oval— a blimp? An engineer had mentioned blimps to him, once. Harley figures they’d all be gone by now. He’ll have to bring it up when he returns. 

He pulls in a deep breath and takes a hesitant step forward. ‘Okay. Nothing’s jumped up and attacked me... yet.’ He thinks to himself. Another step. Two more. And then, suddenly, he’s walking. A nervous, bubbly laugh escapes from Harley’s mouth. Everything’s just so... open! No everpresent walls or constant surveillance. Just him and whatever irradiated cockroaches are nearby. 

He could just... _leave._ The revelation makes him glance back, as if a courser has read his mind and is already coming after him. No... no, he wouldn’t abandon Father. The temporary freedom would be short-lived and would likely end gruesomely. He was going to go to the vault, meet his counterpart, and then return to the Institute. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 


	2. Odd man out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A person or thing differing from all other members of a particular group or set in some way.”

The first human Harley encounters, he nearly shoots on sight.  
They had snuck up behind him (AKA, he had been staring at a bottle cap on the ground and hadn’t heard them coming,) and asked if he knew how to get to a place called ‘Diamond City.’

“It’s the biggest settlement in the Commonwealth! I came all the way from the Capital Wasteland to see it!” She says, bouncing with excitement.  
“Oh! Oh! How about we find it together? Two heads are better than one— just ask a Brahmin!”

Harley doesn’t think that a two-headed cow is the pinnacle of intelligence, but he can see the advantage of having someone to watch his back. “Sure,” He mumbles. “Don’t see why not.”

“Great! My name’s Annabelle, what’s yours?”

“Harley,” He eventually replies.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Harley! What are you doing in these parts? Are you a trader or something?” She begins to walk north, a dirty and tattered map in her hands.  
He keeps her pace easily, staying by her side.  
“It’s so hard to find people who don’t immediately shoot you!”

‘Is it really _that bad_ up here?’ He thinks to himself.  
“Just... exploring,” He says, settling on something vague that wouldn’t get him in trouble. “Getting a feel for the area.”

“You’re not a native here?” Annabelle asks, tilting her head curiously. “I guess it was dumb of me to just walk up and ask how to get to Diamond City.” She chuckles nervously and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“You didn’t know,” He shrugs. “But this place must be pretty great for you to come all this way. What have you heard about it?”  
Most of what he knows about the city comes from what the scientists told him. (Which consisted of vague stories that might or might not be true.) A walled city built within a stadium.  
The blurry surveillance photos he found always made the city look impressive. 

“Oh my goodness, what _haven’t_ I heard? It’s the safest settlement in the Commonwealth, and a huge trade hub! The walls are hundreds of feet high and completely impenetrable!”

He knows that she’s over exaggerating, but he can’t help but get excited at the thought of seeing the city. 

They were still on his original course (which mostly consisted of walking north until he found a landmark,) so it couldn’t hurt to see what the city was like, right? 

“Sounds impressive,” He says, trying to downplay his interest.  
Harley remembers hearing the city mentioned when he was still young— apparently a synth was running the town as the mayor. Amazingly, no one had figured it out. 

“It sure is! And look— that bridge is right here on the map, we’re almost there!”

——————————

Turns out ‘almost there’ meant ‘2 hours of walking before stumbling into a Diamond City guard.’

Harley is on the verge of giving up and going his own way when they both run into (literally run into, in Annabelle’s case,) a man wearing strange armor and wielding a baseball bat.

“I _knew_ we were heading in the right direction!” Annabelle smiles (once she’s finished apologizing to the guard.) “This... _is_ Diamond City, right?”

“Dunno what else it’d be,” The guard answers, a strange accent apparent in every word. “Just keep walkin’ down this street and it’ll take you straight to the main gate. Can’t miss it.”

Turns out, the guard was right. (Not that Harley doubted him.) He figures he’d have to be blind and stupid to miss the giant green walls, as well as the noise of civilization drifting from within the stadium.  
‘Okay. We’re going to go in, look around, and then get back on track.’ He tells himself. ‘No more, no less.’

The huge gate protecting the entrance opens slowly, but before Harley has the chance to step in, a person in a large suit of power armor pushes past him, knocking against his shoulder on their way out. 

“Rude,” He mutters once he’s sure the person is out of earshot. Father had told him that traditional values were all but dead on the surface, but that had just seemed excessive. 

Not wanting to let the dampen his excitement, he continues forward and enters the stadium.

———————————

First impressions are everything, and Harley figures that nearly falling down the stairs leading to the marketplace doesn’t make him look very good.  
At least the little girl at the bottom has the decency to ask if he’s okay. 

“Yeah, it’s just... slippery.” He huffs, glaring up at the offending architecture. 

“You’re new,” She raises her chin, looking at him like she can see through his disguise. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen you here before. Your mask makes it kinda hard to tell, though. But since I don’t recognize your voice, I’ll give you the newcomers discount. Here.”

A bundle of dirty-looking papers is shoved into his face. ‘View From The Vault’ the large typing boasts.  
He mutters a thanks to her before sitting on a nearby bench. (There’s a manger-looking guy sitting on the ground across from him. He tries not to make eye contact.)

The papers seem to form a sort of rudimentary newspaper. Harley’s impressed that someone has the dedication to keep the press alive. 

But what’s even more impressive is the story itself. A man wearing a vault suit came into the city, communicating only through notes and asking if anyone had seen his kidnapped child. The dedication of a slighted father was something anyone could respect.  
It could quite literally be anyone, but he feels... _drawn_ to this man, somehow. 

The man’s name causes the feeling to waver slightly. ‘Callahan.’ (It seemed that the man never clarified if this was his first or last name— too focused on more important things.)  
Harley figures it’s as good a start as any, even if the date places the man’s arrival at... ugh. Over a month ago. 

He huffs in frustration, crumpling the paper in his hands. A possible lead that only ended up as a dead end. A month is a long time. This... ‘Callahan’ could be in another state by now. 

“What did that newspaper ever do to you?”  
A voice draws Harley out of his thoughts, and he jolts in surprise upon seeing its owner. An old synth (a really, _really_ old synth that’s barely keeping himself together,) wearing a trench coat and a fedora. He looks like a character straight out of those holotapes Father loves. 

“You... what _are_ you?” He can’t help but ask. “I mean— I know you’re a synth, but I’ve never seen one like you— and why are you here?” 

The old synth laughs, and Harley can feel an indignant blush color his cheeks.  
“One question at a time, kid! The name’s Nick Valentine, and I’m something of a private eye.” His voice is rough and low, like he’s been smoking cigarettes his whole life. 

“That’s... nice...” Harley responds awkwardly.  
By all means, this... _Valentine_ shouldn’t still be running. Most of the early synths has lifespans of a few years— what makes this one different?  
“So... you’re a detective?”

“The closest thing the Commonwealth has to one,” He chuckles, gesturing around with a bare metal hand. “Are you in need of one?”

“Kind of,” Harley answers, loosening his grip on the papers. “I’m looking for a man named Callahan. Do you know him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will probably be a train wreck lore-wise. Lol don’t read this story expecting me to stick to canon


	3. Proctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A person who monitors students during an examination.”

Valentine’s eyes narrow, regarding Harley suspiciously.   
“Dare I ask, what’s your business with a man like him?”

Ignoring the anxious twist in his gut, he answers. “I have questions that I think he might have the answers to.”

That doesn’t seem to ease the other synth’s mind, as he just hums and scrunches his nose. “This sounds like something we should discuss privately. Follow me.”

Harley, deciding that he really doesn’t have any better option, follows.  
Valentine leads him through one of the city’s cramped alleyways. A neon sign above the door spells out ‘Valentine Detective Agency.’ 

Once he’s inside and the door has been closed, Valentine sits behind a desk and gestures for him to take a seat.   
“What exactly are these _questions?_ ”

Harley doesn’t answer immediately, choosing to think over his option.   
Would it be stupid to reveal his identity to the other synth? Or would that make him more inclined to help?  
Should he just walk away and try to make it on his own? (That option wasn’t appealing— he knew that it would be difficult to track Callahan down without help.

He pulls in a deep breath and begins to speak.   
“I’ll preface this by saying that I have no intention to harm or replace him, if he’s who I think he is,”  
 _That_ certainly catches the Detective’s attention. Harley hooks a finger under the gas mask and pulls up, revealing his face.   
“The name’s Harley Reed, and I’m pretty sure I’m his synth replica.”

A moment of silence as the two synths stare at each other.   
He clutches at the mask, already missing the extra layer of protection. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Valentine eventually mutters. “I thought he couldn’t talk.”

“It’s... very likely that he can’t,” A nervous laugh escapes from Harley’s mouth. “I’m not supposed to be an... _exact_ copy, if that makes sense. I’m not even supposed to know he exists...”

“You... you’re with the Institute?”

“I mean, I was raised there... and I only left a couple of hours ago...”

Valentine places a hand on his chin and hums.   
“Then you have answers he’s looking for, as well. Too bad you just missed him.”

Harley pauses, blinking stupidly at the Detective. “He... what?” Is all he manages to say.

“He was here not too long ago. Tall guy wearing X-01 power armor. Couldn’t miss him.”

“ _Oh I definitely didn’t miss him,_ ” Harley grits out, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did he happen to mention where he was going?”

“Unfortunately not. But your best bet is to look for him in Sanctuary— it’s a settlement up north near Vault 111. That’s usually where he stays.”

Harley feels like he should scream.   
He had spent _hours_ going on this wild goose chase only to find out that his original course was still the best option.   
The only thing wastelanders are good for is wasting time. 

“Thanks,” He bites out bitterly, pulling the gas mask back on. “I’d better get moving.”

“Good luck. It’s a long walk, and the Commonwealth isn’t the friendliest place.”

—————————

‘Stupid worthless outdated excuse for a synth. I should send a courser after him.’ Harley seethes internally, before immediately feeling guilty over the thought. He wouldn’t _actually_ send a courser after Valentine, he was just upset over the wasted time.

He sighs, glancing up at the cloudless, blue sky.   
It looks... weird, since he’s only ever known the ceilings of the Institute. He feels like is he stares too long he’ll fall in. 

‘I wonder if Father realizes I’m gone.’  
He scrunches his nose at the thought. It was almost certain that _someone_ had noticed, and yet, no one had come to retrieve him.   
Maybe Father is looking at this as a test of sorts— to see if Harley can be trusted on his own.

In a moment of paranoia, he glances back over his shoulder. The Institute did have eyes everywhere. They probably had someone in Diamond City who had reported back the moment they saw him. (Probably that poor excuse for a mayor.)

Just the thought of being watched makes him uncomfortable. He had always been camera-shy when it came time for something about him to be documented. The only photos he didn’t complain about were the ones taken on his birthdays.

Birthdays in the Institute were always special. There was cake and presents and pictures.   
There always seemed to be an underlying bittersweet feeling, though. (Probably because they didn’t know if that birthday would be his last.)

Harley sighs and shakes his head as if to clear away the thought.   
‘Now isn’t the time to be sentimental.’ He chides himself. He had to— what was it that the scientists always said?— _remove himself from the situation._ Whatever that meant. 

A low growl causes him to freeze in his tracks.  
He turns slowly, so as to not startle the feral ghoul that he _somehow didn’t notice._  
His grip on his laser rifle tightens, and he slowly lifts it. He’s never actually shot at a living target, but he hopes that it’s not that different than his training sessions at the shooting range. 

“Uh, don’t move!” He cringes at the sound of his own voice. It sounds pathetic and unsure even to himself. The ghoul perks up, bringing its hands closer to its chest and growling.   
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He thinks miserably.

All at once, it seems that a switch is flipped in the ghoul’s head, and it charges forward. 

With a choked-off scream, Harley fires wildly.  
After a few (randomly accurate) shots, the ghoul dissolves into a pile of ash.

“Ugh...” He wrinkles his nose at the smell of burning flesh and ozone. (He’s afraid of how strong it would smell if he didn’t have a gas mask on.)

With a decidedly annoyed kick, the pile of ashes is scattered.   
‘Take _that,_ you stupid ghoul.’ He thinks to himself before continuing on his way. 

——————————

When the sky starts to darken, Harley starts to panic. He had (foolishly) hoped that his little adventure would be over before the end of the day.   
Too scared to feel the exhaustion setting in, he continues forward. 

In the Institute, it was never truly dark. Sure, they dimmed the lights at a certain time, but they never actually turned them off.  
In the Commonwealth, in the other hand, the night is cold and dark and— wait, what was that?

He pauses, ears straining to pick up any noises. When nothing breaks the silence, he sighs shakily and resumes walking.   
‘You’re just being paranoid,’ He tries to assure himself. ‘Nothings going to jump out and kill you.’

Well, not _again_ , anyways. Hopefully.  
Harley is impressed that all of these people have managed to survive on the surface for so long. Father always chucks it up to luck, but Harley thinks it has more to do with human tenacity. The refusal to be complicit in their own extinction.

By all intents and purposes, he _is_ a human. The synth component is the only non-organic part of him.   
And yet, he still feels like an outsider. A poor replica stumbling around in stolen skin.   
He doesn’t even own his body. It belongs to some vault-dweller in a coma.

What a peculiar dilemma. To not even be the owner of one’s DNA.   
Harley had been told in no uncertain terms that the people on the surface hated both him and the Institute. That they cried and screamed and argued about the morality of ‘playing god.’ (Only to be met by deaf ears.)

Maybe the scientists _should’ve_ shown some restraint.  
The thought causes him to wrinkle his nose. It feels like it’s too big for his head. Like a mind much more intelligent than his should be the one thinking it over. He was only a synth. (And he didn’t even get the opportunity to brag about being the replica of an important scientist. Not anymore, at least. Not now that he knows where his DNA came from.)

When Harley trips over a fallen log and falls flat on his face, he decides that he should _probably_ take a break.   
He has never walked this much in his life, and his legs feel like they’re about to fall off.

A dilapidated cabin in the distance is the only shelter in sight.   
Once he’s inside, he blocks the door off with a dresser and presses himself into a corner. It’s nothing like the comfortable beds of the Institute, but it’ll have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 487 hours in Fallout 4 and I’ve only done one quest for the Railroad. Lol sorry to you Railroad stans but they kinda suck


	4. Monachopsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place, as maladapted to your surroundings as a seal on a beach—lumbering, clumsy, easily distracted, huddled in the company of other misfits, unable to recognize the ambient roar of your intended habitat, in which you’d be fluidly, brilliantly, effortlessly at home.”

Something hard keeps prodding Harley’s shoulder, but he’s still to tired to pay it any attention.  
Keeping his eyes closed, he bats at the offending object, and mumbles something about being left alone.

“Huh. Guess they aren’t dead after all.”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Harley’s eyes shoot open.  
Oh. _Oh._ Turns our there’s a gun pointed directly at his face.  
Panicking, he tries to back away, only serving to further corner himself.

“Shit— please don’t shoot!” He cries, holding his hands up in surrender.  
_‘This is what you get for falling asleep in some random cabin in the middle of the Commonwealth and now you’re going to die and Father will be disappointed and— oh. Oh, okay, he’s lowering his gun.’_

The man in question is so ridiculous-looking that Harley would’ve laughed at him (if he wasn’t all to away of the mean-looking weapon in his hands.)  
A wooden mask modeled after a radstag, paired with heavy combat armor and some sort of skin-tight jump suit.  
The man’s companion doesn’t look nearly as ridiculous: A long coat covered with enough ammo to supply a small army.

The masked man grunts and gestures towards Harley with the gun. A clear question— ‘Who are you?’

“Uh— my name’s, uh,” He stutters, his gaze jumping between the gun and the mask.  
“Harley. My name’s Harley and I’m looking for a settlement called Sanctuary.”

The man in the mask tilts his head, and his partner scoffs loudly.

“Why do _you_ want to go to Sanctuary? It doesn’t need any more wandering traders or sob stories, if that’s what you—“ He gets cut off when the other man holds up a hand.  
If Harley has any questions about pecking order, he doesn’t anymore.

Without looking away, the masked man’s hand slowly lowers until he’s pointing to his right.  
A peace offering, it seems. A silent confirmation of ‘Ignore my friend.’

“Thank you,” Harley ducks his head, breaking the (presumed) eye contact.  
The man only grunts in return before turning and walking away. His partner gives Harley a dirty look before following. 

Once the pair are out of sight (and Harley has stopped trembling,) he lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.  
“Holy shit.” Is all he mutters. 

—————————

Turns out Buck (which is what Harley has decided to name mask guy— on account of the whole radstag mask thing,) didn’t give him fake directions.  
It only takes a few hours before he sees the large sign reading “Sanctuary.”  
And then he notices the guard turrets and sentries.

He’s _so close,_ and yet still so far.  
‘Should I just... walk in?’ He grabs the edge of his (overcoat? Cloak? He still has no idea what it is) nervously. If Buck hadn’t shot him on sight, maybe these people wouldn’t, either?  
But then again, there’s no guarantee they’re both part of the same whole.

Maybe Buck was just some vagabond who only knew _of_ Sanctuary. Or maybe he sent Harley our on a suicide mission for the fun of it.  
Oh god, he came all this way just to get shot down by a bunch of—

“Hey!” A voice startles the synth. One of the guards has their hands cupped around their mouth. “Are you a raider?”

“N-no!” He calls back.

“If you’re friendly, why are you standing on the bridge like a creep?”

“Can I come in?” He calls back, ignoring the insult.

“Don’t see why not! Just don’t shoot anyone!”

Harley sighs, releasing his death grip on the poor fabric. Of course he just had to ask. What about the Commonwealth made any sense?  
A few of the guards glance at him as he walks in, but none seem too interested.

“You’re a trader?” The one from before— a tall woman with dark skin and black hair— asks.

“No, just, uh... passing through.” He replies. It’s not _technically_ a lie, just an omission of the truth.

“Well, you’re welcome here as long as you follow the rules. Our gates are open to just about everyone. Quite literally.”

Okay, sounds simple enough. He knew how to follow rules— it was practically a requirement for living in the Institute. People who didn’t follow the rules were kicked out. (And that was as good as a death sentence for those who couldn’t defend themselves.) Harley still remembers the screaming and crying if a scientist who went against orders.

A nudge against his back breaks him out of his thoughts. Expecting to see another guard trying to get him to move, he turns around only to come face-to-face with a—

“Deathclaw!” He wails, stumbling back and falling directly onto his ass.  
The beast snorts, blasting hot air directly into his face.  
“No, no, no, please don’t eat me!” He tries to scoot away, but it keeps moving closer. 

Harley squeezes his eyes shut, regretting every choice that lead to him being here.  
_‘Father I’m so sorry you were right I never should’ve left and now I’m going to die in the middle of this stupid settlement!’_

But the pain he expects never comes. There are no claws tearing into him or teeth ripping him apart. Instead, a heavy weight against his chest. Paired with a low rumbling sound. (Purring?)

He cracks an eye open, only to see the flat top of the Deathclaw’s head pressed against him.  
He raises a hand, the appendage trembling violently, and pats a horn.  
“Good— uh— lizard?” He chuckles nervously.

“Usually doesn’t do that with strangers,” One of the guards comments. (Belatedly, Harley wonders why none of them had helped him.)

“Usually doesn’t do that to anyone,” Another says. “Apart from Callahan and his gang. You sure this is your first time here?”

He jumps up at the sound of the name, causing the Deathclaw to growl lowly. (Which stops when Harley promptly resumes petting it.)  
“Callahan? Is he here right now?”

“Nah. Went to Nuka world, I think,”  
Harley drops his head back, satisfied at the crack of the metal gas mask against the pavement. How is this man always _one step ahead?_  
“Isn’t that what MacCready said? Something about ‘keeping the peace?’”

“I honestly just tune him out when he talks. It’s a bad habit.” The other guard replies. 

“You’re going to miss something important doing that. It’s not like Cal can tell you shit himself.”

“He’d understand. The only reason he keeps that merc around is because he’s a good shot. Codsworth’s much better at deciphering those hand things he does.”

“Don’t let ‘em catch you saying that. Neither of them take kindly to—“

“So, Nuka world?” Harley cuts in, not wanting to listen to more pointless banter.

“Oh, yeah, bunch of raiders out there that he’s in charge of. Wouldn’t recommend going there unless you’ve got some sort of death wish. They’re not known to be... welcoming.”

He sighs. Of course they aren’t. And of course his only lead turns out to be a raider.  
“Any clue when he’s coming back?”

“God, who knows?” The second guard laughs. “Could be tomorrow, could be a month from now. Never know with that guy.”

—————————

Standing in the middle of the elevator platform, keeping his arms wrapped around his chest, Harley stares at the inner entrance to the vault.  
The only sounds come from the dripping of water and his own shaky breathing.

‘You’re trespassing,’ His brain screams at him. ‘You’re defiling this place.’  
“Shut up,” He mutters, and his voice echoes throughout the empty vault. Everything about this place just seems... wrong. Like a perversion of pre-war ideals. (He was unfortunately aware of some of the experiments Vault-tec ran. A synth had brought back holotapes they had found near the skeleton of a Vault-tec representative. Harley hadn’t slept well that night.)

He steps off the elevator and walks forward until he’s reached the top of the stairs.  
The bright spotlights nearly blind him, and the rest of the vault looks pitch black.

‘Just like the Institute.’ He thinks with a hint of discomfort.  
The twisting balls almost make him feel claustrophobic— Vault-tec sure did enjoy building mazes.

As he walks down one of the long hallways, a warning blares out of the speakers in a distant room. Something about an error concerning life support systems.

“This is it,” He says to no one in particular. “The origin point.”  
Harley presses his lips into a thin line, as if to prevent himself from talking again. Was that a rude thing to say? It sounded too clinical, even to him. Too impersonal, considering how ties he is to this place.

Harley stops at the entrance of a blindingly white room, taking in the large machines.  
Cryogenic stasis... he can only imagine how much could’ve been saved if this technology had not fallen into the wrong hands.

He steps past the first few pods, avoiding the large puddles on the floor. None of the people inside look familiar— they’ve been dead too long to be considered viable.  
All of them are closed... except for one.

It’s empty, with no frozen (or thawing) corpse nearby.  
If none of the others look like Harley, this pod must have belonged to his ill-fated progenitor.

The thought alone causes a trill of excitement to rush through him, causing his fingers to shake.  
He pulls his gas mask off and sets it down on the floor in front of the pod, then slowly climbs in.

“I’m following in your footsteps.” He whispers, unable to keep a smile off of his face. 

The expression fades when he notices the cryo pod across from him.  
A woman’s face peeks through the small window, serene and beautiful even in death. There’s a makeshift memorial built around her, complete with (still lit) candles and power cores. (He’s honestly embarrassed that he’s only now noticing it.)

Standing up slowly, he searches the woman’s face. Some part of him wants to recognize her, to know who she is.

“I—“ He starts, before cutting himself off. Too loud. Too disrespectful.

He isn’t welcome here. _That_ he knows for sure. This woman is waiting, but not for him. Never for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harley is Not Very Smart. He gets it from the Sole Survivor.


	5. Conclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A private meeting.”

Harley avoids the Nuka World transit station like a plague.  
Not only was he told quite explicitly that it was a trap, but it is also being guarded by a mean-looking group of mongrels.

Instead, he follows the tracks. It’s his second best option (after just staying in Sanctuary and waiting for Callahan to get back.)  
One of the dogs from said settlement has been following him, for some reason. He does his best to just ignore it.

The rough mountains of the Commonwealth soon give way to open plains. In the distance, he can _just barely_ make out a structure that breaks the uniform evenness. Nuka World. (Probably. Hopefully.)

The old amusement park is something of a dead zone, as far as the Institute is concerned. They had been trying to send in synths, but all of them were killed on sight.   
(‘An unfortunate setback’ is how Father would phrase it. Harley always thought that was a bit of an understatement.)

‘Maybe I can grab some relics while I’m there... if I bring something back, they won’t be as angry!’

Oh, who is he kidding? They’d still be _pissed_ that he left without permission or protection.   
He was an important research subject, after all. Imagine how _disappointed_ they’d be if he died.

“I don’t give a shit,” He mutters, before immediately glancing back over his shoulder. The dog perks up at the perceived attention. No coursers, though. No Institute spies.   
He _did_ actually give a shit. (This newfound freedom is getting to his head.) Just the thought of disappointing Father causes his stomach to twist uncomfortably.

“It’s not the end of the world... again,” He says. “You’ve only been gone for, like, a day!” His words seem to fall on deaf ears, though, and his nervousness doesn’t lessen.

It makes him feel pathetic. The fact that he’s so worried about the opinion of a man who had lied to him his entire life. 

A frightening feeling of resentment bubbles up.  
Harley doesn’t owe Father _anything._ That old fuck should’ve thought twice before making a synth replica of a random Vault-Dweller.   
He forced Harley into existence, so now he’s have to deal with the consequences.

He exhales with a loud, triumphant “Hmph!”  
He’d finish this quest in his own time. (Although, preferably soon. The hot sun and background radiation are making his skin crawl.)  
He’s 22, for Christ’s sake! He deserves to be able to make his own choices!

“I’m my own person, _Shaun.”_ He whispers to himself, smiling like a child. (Because that’s what he feels like right now— a child who has finally gotten his first taste of freedom.)

The dog suddenly starts barking, causing Harley to jolt. “What is it? What do you—“ He turns around, only to end up face to face with... Buck? “... see...”

The masked man cocks his head to the side in a silent question— “What are you doing?”

“Uh— well, you see—“ He stutters, glancing down at the dog. (Who is currently sitting patiently at the other man’s side. ‘Traitor.’ Harley thinks bitterly.)   
“I was just at Sanctuary— thank you for the directions, by the way— and I’ve been looking for someone and the guards said they’d be at Nuka World, but they also said to not take the tram ‘cause it’s a trap so I’m taking the long way and—“

Buck raises a hand, effectively silencing Harley.  
He holds up three fingers, then two pointing to the side, then cups his hand into an ‘o’ shape.   
“Who.”

“You know sign language!” Harley breathes out in disbelief. Father has taught him the basics when he was very young and refused to talk— how did this wastelander learn?   
“Oh my god, this is incredible! I thought it was a dead language! Who taught you? Did you find a book about it?”

A strange chuffing noise comes from Buck— some kind of laugh? He then repeats the three letters in order to restate his question. “Who?”

“Oh, sorry, I got a little excited,” He chuckles nervously, a bright blush coloring his face. “A man named Callahan. I was told I could find him at Nuka World... do you know him?”

A low growl, paired with a slow nod. (A reluctant affirmation, it seems. Nothing meant to be aggressive,)  
“No want,” He signs gravely. “Bad.”

Harley pauses, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

“Murder. Torture. Traps. Danger,” Buck continues to growl. “No want.”

Harley slumps slightly. “Really?” He asks, feeling more and mite discouraged as the other man nods again. “Ugh. I was really hoping to meet him. I had questions I wanted to ask.”

“What?” Buck signs, cocking his head.

“Just... personal things,” Harley answers vaguely.   
_Extremely_ personal things. Like ‘Hey! I’m pretty sure I’m your clone! Has your son been kidnapped?’   
“Although, maybe it’s best if I keep them to myself. If he really is a bad person.”

A nod of confirmation, followed by a pause.   
Buck eventually points at the rifle in Harley’s hands, signing “See.”

“Oh, you want to look at it?” He asks, grinning at Buck’s enthusiastic nod. “Just don’t break it.”  
(He mentally screams at himself for being so naïve as he hands the gun over. He’s only known this man for five minutes, and he’s already handing over his only means for defense.)

Buck raises the gun up, turning it over in his hands. Something about it must intrigue him, as he brings it closer to his face in order to get a better look.   
The rifle looks small in his hands. (Which, in turn, look rough and warm and... Harley suddenly feels hot.)

“It’s, uh... not the prettiest, but it gets the job done,” He comments, watching as Buck lifts up the gun and peers down the sights. “You’ve probably seem others like it—“ He stops as the other man fires a single shot.

There’s a squeal in the distance as a rat drops dead.

“Good shot,” Harley mutters, his throat suddenly feeling dry. It feels like an understatement— He hadn’t even _noticed_ the rat, but Buck had, and he killed it with a single well-placed shot.  
The kickback hadn’t even _moved_ him.

‘Oh no,’ Harley thinks, on the verge of panic. ‘Oh no, no, no, I’m falling down a rabbit hole...’  
How could he _not?_ Even though he’s only known this man for the better part of five minutes, he can tell he’s wildly different than anyone within the Institute. 

Skilled with a gun, willing to help, strong, (so very strong... my god, those _arms,_ ) and without a stick in his ass. He’s dressed like he’s blind, but something about him commands respect.  
A natural-born leader. The kind of man that weaker people flock to.

A short cough pulls Harley out of his downwards spiral. Buck holds the rifle out towards him, watching curiously.

“Sorry,” Harley mumbles quickly, grabbing onto the gun. “Just— just lost in thought... um, where are you going? Not that I want to follow you, or something. Just... curious...” He trails off, staring up at the eyes of the mask and clinging onto his gun like it’s a lifeline. 

Buck doesn’t answer right away, instead tapping the nose of the mask as if it helps him think.  
“Red Rocket,” He eventually spells out. “Come?”

“I—If you don’t mind the company,” The synth answers. “I, uh, don’t want to intrude.”

——————————

“You... built this?” Harley asks hesitantly, staring up at what once was a Red Rocket truckstop. Although, the tall protective walls and... huge stairs to nowhere (???) make it look like some sort of fortress.

Buck nods, pride evident in his stance. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking between Harley and the (honestly kind of impressive) structure.

“Must’ve taken you a while,” Harley glances over at him. “Is this your base or something?”

A shrug, then he puts his hand out and rocks it side to side. “Kinda.”

“Oh,” Harley nods. “A retreat?”

The strange chuffing noise starts again, and he can see the bounce of Buck’s shoulders.   
It _is_ a laugh! A strange one, but an expression of delight all the same.   
Then Buck nods and pushes open the gate that protects the truckstop.

As the taller man walks in, Harley makes sure to follow in his footsteps. (The place doesn’t look like it’s about to fall apart, but it’s obvious that there are hidden traps.)   
The only other inhabitants of the (house? Compound? Murder trap?) are a pack of dogs and a single grey cat.

Buck makes a soft ‘pspsps’ noise as he approaches the cat, who in turn blinks up at him lazily.  
He scratches behind its ears, then points at her and quickly signs something that looks like ‘Nora.’

“That’s her name?” Harley asks, steering clear of the feline as he steps by. (The only interaction he’s had with an animal involved a synth crow biting his finger. He avoids most animals as a rule.) “Nora?”

Buck ducks his head, but grunts in confirmation.   
The dogs jump up and surround him as he approaches them, barking and wagging their tails. (Even the dog that had followed Harley joins the huddle. He tries not to be jealous about that.)

“That’s a pretty name. Do the, uh, dogs have names, too?”  
The other man glances at him, staring as if the question had caught him off-guard. 

The masked man nods, then points at a stocky black dog, “Atlas.” An albino mongrel, “Lizzie.” An honest-to-god wolf, “Mishka.” A grey and brown mutt, “Delilah.” And lastly, the dog from Sanctuary. “Dogmeat.”

“Dogmeat?” Harley can’t help but chuckle. “Not a bad name, just... strange,”   
At the sound of his name, ‘Dogmeat’ trots over, sitting down in front of Harley and staring up expectantly. 

“Uh, no thank you, I’m good,” He says as if the dog will understand. When the dog doesn’t move, he tries again. “Go back to your, uh, owner. I don’t want you to bite me...”

A whistle from Buck draws both of their attentions.   
He presses his thumb, middle, and pointer finger together. Then, he holds out a hand and clamps down on it with the other. “No bite.”

“You’re sure he won’t bite?” He asks, eyeing the dog warily. Buck begins to walk over, as if he intends to act as a sort of supervisor.   
“Because I don’t want to get rabies or something... not that I’m trying to imply that I think you don’t take care of your dogs— I’m certain that they’re all quite healthy, I just don’t want to take my chances, and— oh.”

He stops talking as the other man grabs onto his wrist, puppeteering his arm in order to make him pat Dogmeat’s head.   
“Thanks?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✌️😳


	6. Tergiversate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To change repeatedly one's attitude or opinions with respect to a cause, subject, etc.; equivocate.“

“Sooo... you’ve been to Sanctuary?”  
Harley asks, leaning against a metal wall. “‘Cause Dogmeat followed me from there. He’s your dog, right?”

Buck (he still hasn’t gathered the courage to ask for the other man’s name)glances up from the gun in his lap and nods. 

“It’s pretty impressive. Has a big vault behind it, too. You’ve probably already seen it, though.”  
Buck pauses, seemingly watching Harley out of the corner of his eye.  
“Apparently it’s where Callahan came from. I only went in because I thought I’d find him there. Seems pretty stupid now, if I’m being honest.” Harley rubs the back of his neck nervously.  
“Can you imagine waking up from cryogenic stasis to all this? Crazy.”

Buck growls lowly, returning his attention back to his gun. Seems like this conversation isn’t doing anything for him. Alright, Harley’s flexible. 

“Um... are you from this area? I’ve heard that some people come here from the, uh... Capital Wasteland? That’s what it’s called, right?” 

The masked man lays his rifle down and turns to face Harley. “Here,” He signs. “Born. You?”

“Near here,” Harley answers. Not _exactly_ a lie. Just a distortion of the truth. He doesn’t know this man well enough to reveal his origins. (But then again, he _did_ reveal his identity to Valentine his first day in the surface.)  
“But I’ve only been in the city once. Had to ask for directions to get to Sanctuary— as you already know.”

The other man perks up, his hands moving quickly.  
“New? Want see?”

“Are you offering me a tour?” Harley asks, tilting his head to the side. “That’s... uh, awfully nice of you, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

Buck shakes his head, then signs, “No. Happy. Bored.” (‘No, I’d he happy to. I’m bored,’ Harley mentally translates.)

The other man picks up his rifle (a ballistic thing that looks like it’s been dunked in pink paint,) and whistles for Dogmeat to come.

Harley moves to pick up his own gun, but the other man quickly snatched it away. Before he can argue, a rifle similar to Buck’s is shoved into his hands.

“What am I— oh!” Harley can only stand still and stutter as Buck lifts up the edge of his poncho (because that’s what he’s decided to call it,) to reveal the plain clothes underneath.  
_”What are you doing?!”_

Harley claws blindly, his hands landing... _somewhere_ on the other man’s body.  
Something hard and cold pressed against his chest— and is then strapped to him. (He tries to ignore how warm he gets when Buck circles his arms around in order to fix the straps.)

The poncho drops suddenly, and not only is Harley now wearing a combat chest piece, he’s also gripping onto Buck’s upper arms like his life depends on it.  
“Uh... this is very... considerate of you.” He says, trying to downplay the strangeness of the fact that a literal stranger just dressed him.

Harley’s eyes slowly begin to slide towards where he has a death grip on the man’s arm. It’s solid and warm and he feels like he might cry. Or vomit. Or die from humiliation.

The sudden rush of shame causes him to pull back. Has the Institute left him this deprived? This pathetic? To be so entranced by the first competent person who gives him attention?  
But it isn’t Harley’s fault that those scientists pale in comparison. 

They’ve spent so long living underground in safety and comfort that they’ve lost their edge. No natural selection to weed out the weak. No struggles to allow the strong to rise. 

His long-buried resentment bibles to the surface, and he tightens his grip on the rifle.  
The scientists never _liked_ him. He was an experiment they never expected to get stuck with. (Previous tests had all ended in failure— the only reason they humored Father with his creation was because they hadn’t expected him to survive.)

The memory seems to drop a metaphorical bucket of ice on his anger.  
Thinking like this is dangerous. It’s a ticket straight to the Synth Retention Bureau. 

“Thanks,” He mutters, taking another step back. “For the, uh... armor. And the gun. I’m ready to head out when you are.”

~~~~~~~~~

Nate isn’t sure if he should trust this scavver or not. (Although, he will admit that giving him a gun and armor isn’t exactly a neutral act.)  
This... ‘Harley’ person (If that’s even his real name) is only a few inches shy of Nate’s 6’4, but he doubts that the other could hold his own in a fight.

Any sort of fight between them wouldn’t last long— and he knows he would come out on top.  
(He doesn’t consider this thought to be narcissistic. Harley nearly shot his own foot off trying to kill a radroach. It’s just stating the truth.)

Nate sighs, gripping onto his pack rifle. It’s sad how he has to treat every new person as a potential threat. But the Wasteland is a cruel and unforgiving place— very few people can or should be trusted.

“So...” Harley’s deep, yet somewhat nasally, voice breaks the silence. “Have you seen that big blimp across from, uh, CIT? Know what that’s all about?” 

Nate glances back, staring incredulously through the eyes of his mask.  
It seems almost impossible that anyone has missed all of the gossip surrounding the Brotherhood of Steel’s arrival.

“Military,” He eventually signs, along with a gesture for ‘kinda.’ “Take technology. Power armor. Fight ghouls, synths. Want destroy Institute.” He tries to keep the wording simple, since he has no idea how much the other man understands.  
(It’s a miracle that Harley understands _anything._ Sign language seems to be a dead language, now that few people know how to read the fewer encyclopedias that haven’t been destroyed. He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. Yes-or-no conversations get really old.)

“They’re... trying time destroy the Institute?” He can see Harley’s eyes widen behind the dark glass of the assault has mask’s eyes. “Is that even possible? I mean— how do they know where it is? I thought no ones ever found it!”

Nate snorts loudly, and shakes his head. “No. Looking. I help.”  
The other man’s head cocks to the side, like a dog hearing a strange noise. (It’s kind of endearing, Nate admits internally.)

“You’re... part of their ranks?” Harley asks, waiting until Nate nods in response. He looks down, wringing his hands together.  
“That’s... hm... admirable? That they’re trying to do something, that is. Have you been on the blimp? I only saw it from a distance, but it looks impressive.”

Nate nods, thinking back to the first time he went aboard the Prydwen.  
“Big. Strong metal inside. Many people.” He signs, attempting to describe the ship with his limited vocabulary.

The message isn’t lost, though. Harley nods, looking up at him with wide eyes.  
“A floating battle station..!” He breathes out. “Why didn’t we think of that? It’s genius!” 

Nate chuckles, enjoying the admiration. Danse would appreciate a civilian that has a healthy admiration for Brotherhood technology.

“Is there... any way I’d be able to see it? Up close, I mean?” The scavver bounces on his toes, looking up at him expectantly.

Nate’s fingers twitch as he considers the question.  
He _could,_ but the problem arises with whether or not he _should._  
The Brotherhood is pretty iffy when it comes to outsiders, and he’s not exactly a well-established member.

“No,” He signs, watching as Harley’s shoulders drop. “Sorry.”  
He curses himself internally— now he just feels like a buzzkill. There has to be _something_ that’s as entertaining as the—  
Oh! ArcJet!

He perks up, his fingers tingling with a sudden rush of energy. “Rocket,” He spells out. “Technology. Work. Want see?”

“A working rocket? I— I’d love to see it! How is something like that still functional? It sounds incredible! Oh my god, I have to see it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally had to make sure the male sole survivor is actually named Nate... writing fics really fucks with your brain lol.
> 
> Also— just discovered you can’t actually see the Prydwen from CIT 😞 I’m sorry that this fic is literally unreadable


	7. Pyrophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An intense and often debilitating fear of fire.”

“ _You_ did all of this?”  
Harley mutters, looking down at the mangled pile of machinery. (Which used to be long to a squadron of early synths.)  
Some of it is warped and twisted, as if molded by some extreme heat. There is a fine layer of dust— or ash?— coating the mangle.   
The sight nearly makes him cry.

Buck nods, and then strolls past the pile like it isn’t a mass grave for humanity’s progress.  
( _Humanity’s folly,_ he has to mentally remind himself. The only thing those synths are good for is dirty work. Harley tried to disconnect himself from them— they’re a remnant of the past.)

But then again, are they _really_ that different? He was made of flesh and blood, and they steel and oil. But they were both made.  
They both owed their lives to Institute scientists and a lack of judgement.

“Help. D. A. N. S. E.” Buck signs casually.   
Harley pauses, trying to decipher what ‘DANSE’ means, before realizing it’s a name.

“Is that who you were with when we first met?” He asks. 

Buck chuffs and shakes his head. “MacCready,” He spells out. “No Danse. Brotherhood.”

“Oh... he’s your Brotherhood buddy? The two of you made quite the mess... why did you come here?”

Buck waves his hand dismissively— ‘It doesn’t matter.’  
Harley can’t help but feel annoyed at the lack of an answer. (Even though secrecy was something he had gotten used to within the Institute.) It feels patronizing.

‘You’re not in the position to complain,’ He reminds himself. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and stay on his good side.’  
He huffs, trailing after Buck through the crowded halls the f the building.

Dogmeat glances up at him curiously, his tail wagging.  
“Go on,” Harley mutters, waving a hand at the dog. “Go hang out with your owner.”

Dogmeat just sniffs his hand in response.  
He really doesn’t know what he expected.

If only dogs were as easy to deal with as computers. If only _anything_ was as easy to deal with as computers.  
Harley can handle code, but not anything that lives and breathes.

It’s why he doesn’t have many friends. Why he spent most of his time trying to help Father and the other department heads.   
He hums lowly to himself— now _that’s_ a sore spot. (But he appreciates the humbling reminder, so he delves deeper into the thought— like pressing on a bruise.)  
The only person who actually seemed to appreciate his help was Father himself. (And even then, it always seemed to step from some inner guilt over his creation— never a genuine thankfulness.)

Because Father never considered the consequences, and now he was stuck with a synth that had to be _raised_ and _cared for_ and only ever made people uncomfortable.  
All of the other synths had something they were good at— something useful.

The Institute has no need of gangly, 6-foot-somethings that only know how to hack terminals and cause problems.  
The thought alone is enough to bring a bitter taste to Harley’s mouth. The Institute is the only home he’s ever known— but the longer he stays away from it, the more he despises the thought of going back.

‘But what other options do you have? Wander the Commonwealth with Buck until something kills you?’ He mentally chides himself. It’s not like he can avoid the Institute forever— a courser would _eventually_ catch up to him.

Something touches Harley’s shoulder, and a loud ‘pspsps’ noise breaks him out of his thoughts.  
Buck is staring at him expectantly, and only now does he notice that they’re both standing at the top of a metal staircase.

“Oh— this is it?” Harley asks, staring down into the dark basement.   
The center of the room is taken up by a large piece of machinery. (He can see why the Institute has synths guarding this place— It’s a treasure trove of pre-war artifacts.)

After the (honestly nerve wracking) descent, Buck leads him through a hallway and into a small observation room. The panel at the front is covered in countless levers and buttons, but the big red button is the only one that stands out.

“Watch,” Buck signs, then points to the rocket.

“I will,” Harley assures him.

A pause (for dramatic effect?) and then the other man presses the button.  
An automated voice begins to count down, and he swears he can feel the excitement radiating off of Buck.

“Engine firing.”   
The flash of light is so blinding that it makes Harley flinch. Hot air blasts through the hall and into the room, causing him to instinctually move away— right into Buck’s side.

The heat and the light are almost too much for him, and he has to stop himself from asking Buck to turn it off.   
‘It’s fine it’s fine it’s not going to hurt you just get a grip and _stop acting like a fucking child!’_

And before he has the chance to have a full-on mental breakdown, everything stops.

A hand is placed on his shoulder, and he cracks an eye open hesitantly.  
The ground below the rocket is bright red from the heat, and the window is coated in ash.

“... oh my god...” He eventually mutters.  
The soft sound of Buck’s laughter pulls him out of his dazed state.

The other man is gripping Harley’s shoulder tightly, staring down at him with clear amusement.   
His free hand makes a scratching motion over his chest— “Scared?”

“No,” He responds, more out of tendency than a real defensiveness. “It just... surprised me. That’s all.”

——————————

“You actually brought sandwiches? I thought you were joking,” Harley stares down at Buck, who is sitting criss-cross-applesauce at the top of the metal stairs.

Buck only chuckles, pulling away the thin plastic wrap. (Where did he get that? This man seems to be full of surprises.)  
He then reaches into a pocket and pulls out an identical bundle, then holding it out towards Harley.

“For me?” He asks, tentatively grabbing it when the other man nods. He slowly sits down next to Buck, keeping his legs close so as to not bump into the other man.  
Harley pushes his gas mask up slightly— just enough to take a bite out of the sandwich. 

It’s nothing like what he got at the Institute— that’s for sure. There’s some sort of mystery meat and a substance that might be cheese. (The whole thing tastes like warm dirt.)  
“It’s... good,” He lies, trying not to spit it out. “Mm. What’s in it?”

Buck sets his own sandwich in his lap and casually signs “Human.”

Harley spits the half-chewed mouthful over the balcony, coughing and wailing.   
_“You brought sandwiches made out of human flesh!? And you waited until I_ ate _it to tell me!? Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with—“_  
His tirade falls flat as Buck rolls back into the metal grate, chuffing and gasping loudly in a silent fit of laughter.

“You fucking dick,” Harley growls as the realization hits him. “You lies to me so I’d freak out!”  
Buck nods, patting himself on the chest.  
“Well, what _is_ it, then?”

Eventually, Buck’s laughter subsides, and he sits back up. “Brahmin.” He spells out.  
Before Harley has the chance to yell at him more, the other man raises up his mask (enough to only reveal the bottom part of his face,) and takes a bite of his meal.

‘Mouth.’ Harley’s brain supplies helpfully.   
‘Strong jaw line, nice lips, and is that stubble? Why don’t you just ask to suck his duck right now?’  
“It’s... nice...” Harley mutters, and he’s not quite sure what he’s talking about.

Buck’s mouth curls into a smile, but he shakes his head. He sets his food down in order to sign, “Bullshit. Terrible.”

Oh. Right. They’re talking about the food.  
“Yeah... it’s not that good...”

Buck shrugs— a sort of ‘what can you do about it.’ The carelessness is charming— no Institute science would _settle._  
Maybe that’s where this whole... _attraction_ things stems from. The strangeness of this man. The total deviation from everything Harley’s been taught. (It makes him feel like a rebellious pre-war teenager. Sneaking out of the house in order to meet a boy his parents would never approve of.)

The thought causes excitement to bubble up from Harley’s stomach. He’d never oppose Father outright, but he’d make things difficult.

A distant noise catches the attention of both men, causing them to stare at the nearby hallway.

“What was—“ Harley stops as soon as Buck raises a hand.  
The other man stands slowly, grabbing his rifle from the ground. He takes a few steps towards the door. Making sure to stay silent.

Harley gets up in a similarly slow fashion, keeping his own gun clutched to his chest protectively.   
As... _whatever it is_ gets closer, the sounds of an automated voice and mechanical parts grow louder.

“It’s a synth!” He hisses to Buck.  
The other man pauses, listens, and then straightens up and strolls over to the hallway.  
“What are you—“ Something blue flashes past Buck’s head, and he responds by raising up his gun and firing haphazardly down the hall.

Bullets ricochet through the small corridor, and a loud ‘thump’ lets Harley know that the synth didn’t survive the onslaught.  
Hm. He should’ve realized that a single synth wouldn’t put up much of a challenge.

“Is it dead?” Harley asks, just to make sure.   
Instead of responding outright, Buck walks into the hallway, only to return a moment later with the severed head.

“Well... I guess it isn’t going to recover after all that.”


	8. Astre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A celestial body.”

The trek back to Diamond City is long and exhausting.  
(Okay, Harley will admit that he’s being a _little_ over dramatic. It isn’t nearly as bad as the initial walk to Sanctuary.) Buck is keeping an even pace and seems allergic to the thought of taking a break.

‘Impressive stamina,’ The unwelcome thought whispers.   
“Shut up,” He mutters, ignoring the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now isn’t the time to list over masked strangers.

Dogmeat glances up at him, and Harley can’t shake the thought that the stupid dog _knows._ (He’s not sure _what_ the dog knows, just that it could ruin him.)  
He sighs heavily, and reaches down to scratch Dogmeat’s head. “I scratch you, you scratch me?” He asks quietly, as if a canine has any understanding of trades.

“I’m going crazy,” He whispers to the dog in a sing-song voice. “I’m traveling with a masked lunatic and having conversations with his dog! Maybe this Callahan guy didn’t have all his marbles, huh boy?”

Dogmeat wags his tail, as if in silent confirmation.

“God, what am I doing?” He asks miserably, making sure not to be overheard by Buck. “This radiation is getting to my head... there’s no way I can evade the SRS... They’re one job is literally to hunt down missing synths!” I’m an idiot...”

Dogmeat makes a pathetic little whimpering noise and nudges his head against Harley’s hand.  
He scratches behind one of the dog’s ears and smiles weakly.

“You know, I wanted a dog when I was really young. Father said all of them died when the bombs dropped. Guess he lied about that, huh? Or are you the last one? I know you’re not, but it’s still a depressing thought. All of that evolution wasted. Destroyed by the very species that created you.”

No response. Just the same blank stare.  
Harley isn’t sure what he expected.

Buck suddenly clicks his tongue loudly, trying to get Harley’s attention. He reaches back and grabs the synth’s shoulder, pulling him to his side. Before the synth has the chance to ask any questions, Buck raises a hand and points at something in the distance— a pack of feral ghouls.

“Crap...” Harley mutters. “Should we go around them?”

“Heh?” Buck exhales sharply, tilting his head. He then shakes his head and pokes the gun in Harley’s hands.

“Oh, you want to shoot them?” He holds the rifle out towards the other man. (Buck still has his own rifle slung across his back— Harley doesn’t know what he wants with this one.)

Buck grunts and gestures towards him— “You do it.”

“Ah... well, I don’t know about that...” Harley says warily. “I’m not as good a shot as you are.”

The other man makes a dismissive sort of shushing noise and places his hands on top of Harley’s, raising up the gun.  
The synth can only watch nervously as Buck steps behind him, nearly resting his chin on his shoulder in order to peer through the sights.

Harley swallows thickly as Buck presses against his back, adjusting his stance.  
‘I’m going to fucking die!’ He wails internally. ‘All of my blood is leaving my brain and I’m so fucking warm and there’s no way he doesn’t know and _oh my god why are his hands on my hips—‘_

Buck snorts quietly, apparently satisfied with his job. His hands return to their spot on top of Harley’s, and he taps his pointer finger against the synth’s. A silent order. “Fire.”

And Harley is happy to oblige.

The loud crack of the rifle, followed by the death cry of the ghoul. One down, three to go.  
The others fall the same as the first— apparently too stupid to notice or care about their fallen comrades. 

Neither of the men move for a moment, simply standing still and staring at the crumpled corpses. (Although, Harley sweats he can feel Buck press even closer. If such a thing is even possible.)  
He wonders if this _means_ something. It doesn’t seem normal— even for wastelanders.

“Hang.” Buck suddenly grunts, pulling away. (Not that he’d admit it, but Harley immediately misses the warmth and weight.)  
“Good job,” He signs, then slaps Harley on the back.

“Couldn’t of done it without you, Buck.”

A pause. Harley realizes his mistake.

“What?” The masked man signs, chuffing.

“Uh— well, I—“ He stutters, cheeks quickly flushing red. “Well, you see, you never told me your—uh— name, so I’ve just been... calling you Buck... you know... because of the deer mask...”  
He stands in miserable silence as the other man continues to laugh at him. How humiliating.  
“Can you... tell me what your name actually is?”

“Nate,” He signs once his laughter has subsided. “No Buck. Fun. Good guess.”

“I’m glad one of us is finding some enjoyment in this,” Harley grumbles. “But... it’s good to finally learn your name, Nate.” He holds his hand out, before immediately feeling like a massive idiot.

Before he has the chance to pull his hand back, Nate grabs his hand and shakes it.

—————————

“So... Nate,” Harley drawls, attempting to feign causality. “How long have you been in this god-forsaken wasteland, if you catch my drift?”

The other man snorts in amusement. “Age? 29. Old, here.”

“Jesus, how is 29 old? Well, I guess the average life expectancy isn’t very high here, is it. But you’re not _old_ old. I was kinda worried you’d be, like, 40 or something. “

The same chuffing laugh as before. “Old. You small. Young?”

“I’m not _small.”_ Harley answers indignantly. “I’m only a few inches shorter than you! I don’t know if I should tell you, now that you’ve insulted me.”

“No, no, no,” Nate signs repeatedly. “Joke. No mean. Tell?”

“I didn’t think it was very funny, but whatever. I’m 22.”

Nate barks out a (surprisingly loud) “Heh!” Then stiffens and shakes his head.  
“Young. Not funny. Remind me me.”

“I... remind you of yourself?” Harley asks hesitantly, watching as the other man nods. It’s high praise (at least in his mind.) He tries to not let it get to his head.  
“In what way? I can’t imagine you ever being short.”

The other man growls and clasps his hands against his chest, looking up dreamily. (He seems to have a love for theatrics.)  
He then reaches up and knocks a fist against where his temple (probably) is. “Stupid.”

“Hey!”

“No, no, no. Me, no you.” Nate assures the synth. “Bad brain. No think.”

“I suppose we all have our moments, huh? The brain is a funny thing. Never know what it’s going to do.”

That seems to remind Nate of something— as he suddenly straightens up, gesturing in a ‘wait’ motion. He rummages through his many pockets, until he pulls out— Honestly, Harley has no idea _what_ it is. It’s a small piece of technology paired with something soft and pink.

Harley wrinkles his nose as a rather... _strong_ odor manages to get through his gas mask.   
“Ugh... what _is_ that?”  
The other man doesn’t answer immediately, instead holding the thing out to Harley, not moving until it has (reluctantly) been taken.

“Brain.” Nate signs, acting as if the whole situation isn’t strange at all.

“Oh my god!” Harley moans as he holds the (slimy and squishy) mass of brain away from himself. “ _Why_ did you just _hand_ me someone’s _brain?!”_

Realizing the synth’s discomfort, Nate takes the lump of flesh back and holds it up like some sort of trophy.   
“Kellogg.” He spells.

“That’s...” Harley honestly thinks that he didn’t read the signs right, (or that Nate is just fucking with him,) because there’s no way that _that_ is the stolen cybernetic implant of Kellogg.   
(But then again, he really wants to believe that it is. Kellogg always looked down on him— like he knew something the synth didn’t.)  
“How did you get that? _Where_ did you get that?”

Nate relays a wild tale about going to a place named Fort Hagen, where he was continuously assaulted by synths until he finally came face-to-face with the mercenary.  
(Apparently, a Fat Man is what took Kellogg’s life. Harley feels a sick sense of pleasure at the fact.)

“It’s a miracle it survived,” He comments, unsure of if he’s talking about Nate or the brain. “Probably a lot of good information in there. A man like that has seen a lot.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nate isn’t sure why he showed Harley the cybernetic enhancement. (To satisfy someone sort of morbid curiosity? To show off a satisfying kill? (To impress a potential romantic partner?))  
He’s glad he did it, though. Harley seemed interested, and had brought up something Nate hadn’t considered— It’s a brain, so it must have _some sort_ of information in it.

Which is why he’s all the more excited when they finally get back to Diamond City. Surely Valentine will know what to do with something like this?   
(Okay, it’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s his best lead right now.)

Nate asks Harley to wait outside (he forces the younger man to sit on a bench and signs ‘stay,’) and then books it to the detective’s office.

Said synth detective is currently in the middle of a (rather telling) conversation with a certain reporter.  
“You’re back!” Valentine says once he’s noticed Nate. “And without your son...”

Nate sighs. (More out of necessity than any real frustration. He hadn’t really expected Kellogg to be the end of his search.) He takes the notepad and pen as Piper hands them over.

“Kellogg has Shaun, but gave them to the Institute,” He writes. “I was too late.”

“Ah crap,” Piper huffs, perfectly summing up the entire issue. “Now what?”

“Now we only have to solve the biggest mystery in the commonwealth,” Nate scribbles down, not even trying to hide his disdain. “But I think I have a lead.”

Valentine raises an eyebrow, watching the Vault-Dweller curiously. “Every little detail counts. What did you have in mind?”

“Funny you should say that.”  
Nate reaches into his pocket, pulls out the chunk of brain, and sets it on the desk.   
“Pulled this out of Kellogg’s head. Man like him would have inside knowledge of the Institute. Memories could help us— don’t know how to get them, though.”

“That’s... definitely not the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Piper wrinkles her nose, looking as if she’s about to throw up.

“Makes me glad I don’t have a working nose,” Valentine comments, before turning his attention back to Nate. “But you’re right. This could be the break we need—and I know just the place and person that can get us what we want. You’ve heard of Goodneighbor, right?”

Nate nods. Only a few times, but he knows how to get there.

“Meet me in the Memory Den. There’s a chance they can help us.”

“I’ll stay here. Do some research,” Piper says, patting Nate’s shoulder as she steps past him. “I’ll be available, if you need a hand.”

“I’d say we should go together, but you have plenty of company,” Valentine says knowingly, watching Nate with sharp eyes. “Your friend was here about a week ago, asking for you.”

That causes Nate to pause, his hand hovering over the door handle.

“Do you know him? He seemed to have a vested interest in finding you.”

“Hmph.” Is the only answer Valentine gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck bitch!! Shit!


End file.
